


Song of the Simple Man

by zjofierose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a simple man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song of the Simple Man

I’m a simple man.

I like simple things. 

I like my tea hot, but not scalding. I like one small scoop of sugar, then stirred lightly, a dash of cream. I like a warm scone, or a good sandwich with soup on the side. I like to wake up in the morning just before dawn, to lie in my bed in my cocoon of warmth and watch as the rising sun drips its colors across the wall. 

I like, when I fire my gun, to know that the person on the receiving end of my bullet has done something that is a direct threat to myself or to one I hold dear. I can’t say that they deserve it- does anyone, ever? But I have no quarrel with killing for defense, and I like to believe that’s all I’ve ever done. 

I like the way my sister’s eyes squinch up at the sides when she laughs, the way she pounds the table with a fist the way no good British woman should. I like the way she looks at Clara when she thinks no one is watching, the way her eyes go all wide and shell-shocked, like she can’t actually believe that anyone has consented to marry her, let alone this exquisite creature.

I like Debussy, Mozart, and Rachmaninoff. Especially on the violin.

I like Lestrade- he’s a good man, and intelligent enough. He’ll never get too much further in his job; he’s not ruthless the way he should be. But that’s ok, because he’s pleased doing what he does. I like the way he is willing to humble himself, to admit that some things are beyond his capacity, in order for things to be taken care of. 

I like daffodils- our grandmother had a whole hillside of them, and they would bloom in the spring, a giant wash of brilliant yellow. We would pick bunches and bunches of them, shoving them into jam jars and setting them around her house. They wilted quickly, but until they did they were glorious. I like that I can see them, and then I can smell her when I close my eyes. 

I like a clean space. I can’t help it, not really. I was always this way, and years in the military only reinforced it, I suppose. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Shoes just so, shirts hanging, surfaces clear and dusted. A counter free of body parts and Petri dishes, a kitchen table with enough room for my plate, my mug, and my paper. 

I like when the fridge is empty of all disembodied bits.

I like sitting here, leaning forward in this uncomfortable chair as I watch the monitors for any change. I like knowing that I can be here, that I will always be here, no matter what. That whenever Sherlock comes around, when he’s fought his way back again from the brink of death, that he will know I am here, and that I have been here from the beginning. I like the way his long fingers arch on the bedsheet, a perfect circumflex of tendon and bone. If you ignore the line of the IV. 

Mostly, though?

I will like it when Sherlock opens his eyes.


End file.
